Before Aroun could reply, Rashid came back with two or three road maps. He opened one out on the table and they looked at it, all except Makeev, who stayed by the fire.

“There we are, Choisy,” Rashid said. “Thirty miles from Paris, and here is the air-force field at Valenton only seven miles away.”

“Have you got a map of larger scale?”

“Yes.” Rashid unfolded one of the others.

“Good,” Dillon said. “It’s perfectly clear that only one country road links Choisy to Valenton and here, about three miles before the airfield, there’s a railway crossing. Perfect.”

“For what?” Aroun demanded.

“An ambush. Look, I know how these things operate. There’ll be one car, two at the most, and an escort. Maybe half a dozen CRS police on motorbikes.”

“My God!” Aroun whispered.

“Yes, well. He’s got very little to do with it. It could work. Fast, very simple. What the Brits call a piece of cake.”

Aroun turned in appeal to Makeev, who shrugged. “He means it, Michael. You said this was what you wanted, so make up your mind.”

Aroun took a deep breath and turned back to Dillon. “All right.”

“Good,” Dillon said calmly. He reached for a pad and pencil on the table and wrote on it quickly. “Those are the details of my numbered bank account in Zurich. You’ll transfer one million pounds to it first thing in the morning.”

“In advance?” Rashid said. “Isn’t that expecting rather a lot?”

“No, my old son, it’s you people who are expecting rather a lot, and the rules have changed. On successful completion, I’ll expect a further million.”

“Now look here,” Rashid started, but Aroun held up a hand.

“Fine, Mr. Dillon, and cheap at the price. Now what can we do for you?”

“I need operating money. I presume a man like you keeps large supplies of the filthy stuff around the house?”

“Very large,” Aroun smiled. “How much?”

“Can you manage dollars? Say twenty thousand?”